At last the blessed darkness came to our relief. The rain of bullets ceased; we no longer heard the thundering beat of galloping horses in our rear, were no longer called to face about in order to repel some fierce cavalry charge. The pursuit had stopped; the victors had returned to celebrate their triumph.
We marched on in the darkness of the night, gloomy and weary. Some were too tired and dispirited even to talk; others—but only a few—grumbled bitterly at their leaders, telling each other that if this or that had been done, we should have gained the victory. Many of the poor fellows were badly hurt; some sank exhausted to the ground, from which they would never rise again.
At Parthenay we overtook the Admiral and the few troops he had been able to collect. When morning came, Felix was one of the first to meet me, and I had never seen him so down-hearted. His bright smile, his happy, cheery looks had all gone; he hung his head in shame.
"It is terrible, Edmond," he said; "the Cause is ruined, and we are disgraced. I would rather we had all died on the field."
"Nonsense!" I replied, endeavouring to hearten him; "we are of far more use alive than dead. And to be beaten is not to be disgraced. Had you seen the Count of St. Cyr die you would not use that word. But what of our chief? Is he seriously wounded?"
"His jaw is broken by a pistol-shot."
"Yet I warrant he has not given way to despair!"
"No," he replied with something of his old brightness, "a Coligny does not despair."
"Nor does a Bellièvre!" I returned smiling. "We shall rally the runaways in a few days, and Coligny will command an army again."
The defeat was, however, a heavier one than I guessed, and only Anjou's folly saved us from utter destruction. Instead of hunting us down with his whole force he turned aside to besiege St. Jean d'Angely, and thus gave our leaders time to form fresh plans. Strong garrisons were sent to defend Niort and Angoulême, while the main part of the beaten army retired to Rochelle.